Elevator
by Pathetic Fallacy
Summary: The lift was bound to break down eventually, wasn't it? Rated for language, on the side of caution.


_My first attempt at a serious House fanfiction. Enjoy, hopefully._

* * *

His limp was more pronounced today – the first thing Dr. James Wilson noticed about his long-time friend as House strode through the doors of the hospital, eyes fixed on the elevator doors. The oncologist, who had been heading for his own office anyway, slipped into step beside him.

"You look like a man with a mission today. I'm hazarding a guess that it doesn't involve clinic duty."

"No, it involves drugs. Left the damn things behind yesterday – my leg is killing me."

"Why didn't you come back? Hospital's always open."

"What, and spend more time here than I have to? Don't make me laugh, it hurts."

He jabbed the button with the end of his cane, before leaning heavily on it as the pair waited for the elevator to arrive. House tutted impatience, prodding the doors pointlessly with his cane.

"Because we all know _poking _the doors will make the elevator come faster."

"What do you want me to do? Wait patiently?"

The elevator finally came, and the two stepped into it. An elderly man began to hobble hurriedly towards it – House shut the door with a push of a button, grinning with satisfaction.

"You are a vindictive bastard."

"And I am proud of it."

Wilson sighed, rolling his eyes. He was about to counter that flippant statement when there was an unearthly metallic grinding noise that sent his hands to his ears in involuntary self-defense. House's yelp of pain was lost in the noise as the elevator ground to a halt, with one last reverberating squeal of protesting metal. Harsh breathing replaced it.

"God. House?"

"Fine. Just – overbalanced. Shit," he added, pressing his forehead against the cool metal. His knuckles were white on the handle of his cane. Wilson decided it was best not to speak. Getting his head bitten off wasn't in the plan.

"What the hell happened?"

There was no response. Wilson eyed the buttons, tentatively pressing the button for the fifth floor. Nothing happened. Slightly worried, he tried the emergency door open button. Again, no response.

"We're stuck."

Wilson prodded an official-looking red distress button. There was a muffled 'bleep' but not much else. Amused, he poked it again, before sighing and reguarding the panel with some frustration.

"What's the time?"

"We're stuck in an elevator, no-one knows we're here, and you're worried about how much clinic duty you've managed to miss?"

"Firstly, we might not be stuck. Secondly, plenty of people know we're here. That guy that almost got in, for example."

"And he's really likely to help us after the kind treatment you subjected him to."

"But aren't you glad he's not in here with us? Sick people. Urgh."

House had slid to a sitting position against the wall of the elevator, back of his head pressed fiercely into the metal behind him and piercing blue eyes fixed on the ceiling. Wilson was mildly reassured by the sarcastic comments – it meant nothing too serious was wrong. House had just jarred his leg, was all. _No Vicodin. _Damn. He pressed the emergency open button again, cursed at the irony that he might have appreciated in different circumstances – the emergency button was disabled by an emergency. Wonderful.

"We're stuck," he repeated, mostly to fill the worrying silence. House nodded.

"How long?"

"How should I know?" That irritated him slightly – as if he was supposed to know, as if he was the expert on everything all of a sudden. "A few hours?" House's almost imperceptible groan cleared away the irritation, replaced it with concern. The last time House had been without his pills for an extended period of time, he'd broken his own hand.

"Don't worry," the diagnostician muttered, as if reading his friend's thoughts. "No blunt objects in here, see?" Wilson winced. There was silence in the elevator – Wilson settled in the adjacent corner, gazing at the panel, thoughts whirring.

"House," Wilson started. House turned those blindingly blue eyes in his direction, one eyebrow raised. There was another long silence, finally broken by House's long-suffering sigh.

"I know it was your idea, I don't care."

"You what? How?" He didn't bother with denial. House might have had terrible bedside manner, but he could be painfully shrewd at times.

House waved a hand irritably. "You're transparent."

"You're not –"

"Angry?"

"You broke your own hand."

"_I _broke my own hand. You didn't."

"But –"

"Drop it and leave it alone."

Wilson continued to watch him from across the elevator. House rolled his eyes.

"Don't give me those puppy eyes. You're forgiven, if that's what you wanted."

There was silence again. House began to rummage pointlessly through his pockets, still watched by Wilson. The oncologist stood, crossing to sit next to House and dropping a chocolate bar in his lap.

"Blocks pain," he said simply. "Julie's told me aboutit about a thousand times. The Internet can betiresome."  
House reguarded him for a moment, before something closely resembling a smile flickered through his eyes.

"I suppose it's not as strong as Vicodin..."

"You're welcome."

* * *

_Please do review. I'll give you cookies._


End file.
